The Curiosity of Chocolate
by Musichette
Summary: An AU in which Renée survived the bombing of Bastogne. She and Doc Roe begin a correspondence after Easy Company leaves Bastogne.
1. Chapter 1

She has the same ability as his grandmother; the ability to lay her hands on people and cure them. Eugene is sure of it. Despite the fact that he was lying on a board in the dusty basement of a church with his leg shredded by a mortar, Skinny Sisk looked utterly at peace as she smoothes his hair off his forehead and gives him a drink. It was almost like Skinny had forgotten that just twenty minutes ago he had been gritting his teeth in agony while Eugene picked the splintered fragments of bone from his leg.

She's young. Younger than him, but not by much. Eighteen, maybe, twenty at the oldest. Light brown hair is held back with a blue headscarf. He likes that it is blue. The color blue is soothing on his eyes after so much white and red. It is white he sees the most of, here in Bastogne, but red is always following him as well, in the blood of wounds, in the stains on his hands, on the cross he wears on his arm. Blue is a welcome relief. Her eyes are light blue as well, bright and limpid, despite the bloody horrors surrounding her. Her voice is smooth and gentle, and Eugene can see Skinny relax visibly as she talks to him.

When she turns to move away Eugene speaks up. "Nurse?" He steps forward to remind her of his earlier request for supplies.

"This way."

In a side chapel under the gaze of golden saints and angels she gives him a box and packs what they can spare; not much. How scare must supplies be if she is giving him strips of sheets for bandages? And not even enough of those.

She finishes packing the box. There's not much, but it's something.

"Merci."

Eugene follows her out of the chapel. "Comment vous applez-vous?" She turns her head back to look at him, as if surprised to hear French from an American medic.

"My name is Renée, she says with a hint of a smile.

"I'm Gene, Eugene Roe," he introduces himself.

"Where are you from?" She is curious, no doubt, to learn how he knows French.

"Louisiana, half Cajun," he explains. He is not even sure if she knows where Louisiana is, but she asks no further questions. "Et toi, d'ou viens tu?"

"Bastogne," she says with a small shrug and tilt of the head. Eugene nods in farewell and hurries up the stairs.

He hails the first jeep he sees to get him back to the line and is in a hurry to go, stopping only to pick up a pair of boots when he hears his name being called, in a voice with an elegant accented lilt.

"Eugene!"

He turns to see Renée coming out of the church. She tosses him something. He looks down at the flat rectangle in his hand, almost unable to recognize it.

"Chocolat." She smiles sweetly. "Pour vous."

Chocolate. It feels almost strange to be holding it. Every man got a bar in his ration kit before they jumped on D-Day, but those were long gone. With everything being rationed, treats like chocolate are a rarity unheard of to the soldiers. Eugene figures even civilians are having a hard time getting hold of luxuries like this. But Renée gives it freely, with a smile on her face. It brings a smile to his own face as he nods his thanks and climbs into the jeep.

* * *

It's a tough job, being a medic. Nobody denies that. But Eugene wonders if anybody, even the other Easy Company men, really understand what he goes through every day.

Even when the air is thick with the rattle of machine guns and the whistle of mortars Eugene leaps into action at the first call of "Medic!", braving gunfire and artillery without a weapon to reach a wounded man. Waiting in his foxhole he's as scared as any of them, but for some reason when he hears the call all he can feel is adrenaline giving speed to his legs and a desperation to reach the man before it's too late. Even when there's a lull in battle he's busy. Making the rounds from foxhole to foxhole, checking up on each of the guys. Worrying about the supplies that are dwindling slowly but surely. Eugene looks through his bag in frustration each night. For every man that gets sent off the line that's another bandage used up, another pack of sulfa powder opened, another syrette gone. How is he supposed to treat injuries when there's nothing to use but bedsheets and snow?

Eugene does his best though, making do with what he has. As he moves from group to group he gives them what he can, whether it be a spare blanket or a bit of advice on what to do when they've lost feeling in their feet. Sometimes he sees the men give him strange looks when he talks to them. He knows why. It's because he won't use their nicknames. And it's not because he doesn't know them. In fact, he knows them all. Babe, Shifty, Popeye, Smokey, Bull, Buck...he knows. But he refuses to use them because that's taking one step closer to them, and Eugene doesn't want that. For the men, for the combatants, friendship is crucial. You need to know the guy in the foxhole with you, because one day, knowing him could save your life or his. But for a medic, friendship is only a hindrance. It's the sad truth, but it's just easier to have a stranger, rather than a friend, die in your arms.

And despite that, Eugene can't stop himself. He tries in every way he can; he's quiet around the others when he doesn't have to talk, sits alone during meals, listens in on conversations from the outside rather than joining in, uses the most impersonal forms of address: surname or rank. But he can't stop himself. He cares for them.

Goddammit.

* * *

Martin won't let Eugene go with the reconnaissance patrol, instead ordering him to stay back and keep out of trouble. Eugene obeys, crouched against a tree, cigarette in his mouth, eyebrows slanted as he watches the fog where the patrol disappeared. He's never in his life seen fog so thick. Between the snow on the ground, the gray skies and the fog it's a wonder more men aren't being injured just by walking into trees they can't see.

He can't see anything but he can hear it. The unmistakable sound of distant gunfire. This is what he hates the most: the waiting. There's nothing he can do about it though. This is his job. Technically, medics are non-combatants, so they aren't issued weapons. Even if he was with them he'd be no help. No, all he can do is hang back and wait, and wonder how many of them are going to come back this time.

* * *

This time it's Julian who doesn't return. Apparently he was shot in the throat and enemy fire prevented the others from being able to get him. The men are silent and the mood is somber as they huddle in a circle together.

Eugene is sitting outside the circle as usual, but he keeps giving the circle sideways looks, furtively making sure they're alright. All of the men are dismal but Heffron's the worst. Ashen-faced, his eyes are dull as he stares ahead of him, turning his head so he doesn't have to make eye contact with anybody. Julian and Heffron were more than foxhole mates; they were best friends as well.

Without thinking, Eugene reaches into his bag and pulls out the first thing he touches: the chocolate Renée gave him. He hasn't thought much about her since they met, but now as he looks at the candy he remembers her calming touch and simple kindness in her eyes as she gave it to him. Eugene has been in a tizzy lately, worrying about his low supplies, but for once he doesn't need scissors or morphine. Maybe the chocolate is all he needs.

* * *

Heffron's not in his foxhole when Eugene is making the rounds that night. Eugene figures that to Heffron the hole will seem too empty, with Julian gone. After a bit of searching, Eugene finds him with Spina.

The foxhole is a bit crowded already but Eugene slides in anyways. "Got you," he says with a smile. Heffron doesn't reply. Spina's arm is around him, and a blanket covers them both. Guess Spina noticed Heffron's despondency as well. Eugene is glad of that.

Eugene pulls out the chocolate bar and offers it to him. "Heffron?" No response. Eugene opens the bar anyways, breaking off a piece and showing it to him. He tries again. "Edward?" He puts it in Heffron's hand and pushes his hand towards his mouth. "Eat it." Heffron doesn't look like he really wants to, but the habit of obeying the medic takes over and he brings the chocolate to his mouth slowly, breaking off a bite with an audible snapping noise. Eugene breathes a sigh of relief. "Good." Heffron chews. "Perfect." It is only a small comfort he can offer to a man who has lost his best friend, but Eugene offers it gladly.

There's a few moments' silence before Heffron speaks up, the first Eugene's heard him talk since the patrol came back. "I promised him if he got hit, I'd get his stuff and bring it to his mom, you know?" He pauses before bursting out, "Now the fucking Krauts'll strip him." His voice is slightly hoarse and quivers.

"It's ok," says Eugene, realizing how callous he sounds, but not knowing what else to say. The chocolate did a better job comforting Heffron than he's doing.

"It's not!" says Heffron. "It's not ok. I should have got to him."

Neither Eugene nor Spina knows what to say to that. Perhaps it is best that nothing is said. Instead Spina pulls Heffron closer and Eugene tucks the blanket more snugly around him. It's something they don't teach you in medic training, that sometimes all a man needs is somebody to share a foxhole with.

* * *

He wakes up later to the sound of muffled machine gun fire. Spina and Heffron are still asleep. Spina's question from earlier that night is still echoing in his head.

_I've had enough playing doctor. What about you?_

It's true, he's no doctor. But the men entrust their lives to him as if were one, and not a Louisiana shrimp fisherman who happened to be given some training about wounds and battlefield first aid instead of weapons. A lot of what he does is so simple any man could do it; wipe away the blood, sprinkle on some sulfa powder, and tie the bandage. Of course there's more to a medic than that. There's the need to be quick on your feet, to get to the wounded before they bleed to death. The requirement for the iron stomach to see blood and torn flesh every day. The nerves of steel, essential for watching man after man die. And the compassion and caring for every man in the company. It's stressful and demanding and the rewards are often outweighed by the losses.

He can't say if he's had enough though. The more he thinks about it, the harder it is for him to tell himself definitively, "Yes, I'm through. No more." Maybe six months ago the decision would have been easy, but now...

He thinks of his grandmother, and what she might say if she could see him now. Then he thinks of Renée, the girl with the calming touch. He wonders if maybe she could have been a traiteuse. How far is the leap from a calming touch to a healing touch, he wonders. As exhaustion begins to drag him back into sleep he finds himself envying both these women and what their hands can do, when all he has to help somebody is a bar of chocolate.


	2. Chapter 2

Eugene sees her again when he comes to pick up supplies. He watches her through a window as she holds the hand of a dying man and talks to him softly. The wounded men who have been treated by her call her an angel, and as she sits there with light from the window streaming over her, watching the man with impossibly gentle eyes, Eugene can almost believe it.

Renée leaves the man when a fresh batch of the wounded are brought in, directing where they should go. Eugene puts down his box and goes to help Renée, who has immediately started to tend to the worst of them. The man is peppered with bullet holes, blood drenching his front when Renée pull his shirt and jacket open.

"The artery...gotta...find the artery," says Eugene, smearing the blood away until he can find the largest hole. Without hesitation he thrusts his hand inside the man's body, groping for the artery while Renée tries to mop up the blood. He lost his squeamishness long ago, and the sticky touch of blood on his hands is all too familiar. Dull gasps and jerks are the patient's only reaction to the intrusion.

Renée calls for Anna, twice, her voice echoing in the high ceiling. The man's movements are growing weaker and weaker, and blood runs down the side of his face from his mouth. Anna runs in and begins to help, but Renée happens to catch a glimpse of the man's face and stops suddenly. Eugene doesn't notice and is still looking for that damn artery.

She has to put her hand on his and look at him before he looks up at her and stops. Very slowly, his eyes move towards the man's face. He straightens up and pulls his bloody hand out. He throws a bandage to the floor in frustration and anger.

When he looks at Renée again he isn't sure what he is seeing in her eyes. Grief, but something else as well. Few people have ever seen Eugene truly angry. He has only met Renée once before, but she has seen more of him now than the men of Easy Company.

Perhaps it is the realization of this fact that leads him to agree to sit outside with her. Just for a few minutes.

* * *

When they first met in the dim light of the church she thought his eyes were brown, but in the pale winter sunlight, close up, she sees that they are more like her own. Clear gray-blue, set in a pensive expression. His hair is dark and spiky, so black it's almost blue. His face, pale in the cold, makes it seem even darker.

They sit together outside the church, against a backdrop of snow and rubble and bodies. Jeeps rumble by and men are running about, shouting to each other, but for a few minutes, Renée and Eugene are at peace. She reaches into her pocket and offers him a paper wrapped rectangle.

"Chocolat?" The corners of his mouth twitch in a brief smile and she begins to tear the wrapper.

She keeps her eyes downcast but she can feel his gaze on her as she busies herself with the chocolate, fumbling with the paper and foil. Chocolate was never so hard to open before. She has to look up when she hears him chuckle slightly, though.

"What?"

He isn't looking at her. Instead his gaze is fixed on her hands. "Your hands..." he says. Renée stops unwrapping the chocolate and looks at her hands, a bit self-consciously. They are dirty, with blood in the creases of her nails and stains on the skin. Her fingers are callused and rough to the touch.

"My hands?" she asks.

Eugene doesn't answer, just smiles slightly. "You're a good nurse." His voice is deep, slow and soothing. He speaks French and English with accents unfamiliar to her, but they have a richness that manages to be full without being heavy. She likes listening to it.

Renée lays the chocolate down on her lap and stops. She reaches up and pulls off her headscarf, looking into the distance as she balls it up. "No. I never want to treat another wounded man again. I'd rather work in a butcher's shop."

Eugene seems genuinely puzzled at this. His eyebrows crease faintly and there is confusion in his voice as he says slowly, "But your touch...calms people. That's a gift from God."

"It's not a gift," she retorts. "God would never give such a painful thing."

She resumes opening the chocolate and offers it to him silently. He shakes his head, so she brings it to her own mouth and bites off a small piece. The chocolate is not even that good; it's ration chocolate she's saved, stiff with cold and not very sweet, but she finds comfort in it anyways. Eugene is watching her face now, disbelief on his own face. As if he's trying to decide whether she really meant what she said or not.

Such a painful thing. It's true, isn't it? If God had to give her a gift, He should have given her the power to save men, instead of a soothing touch that was of no use to one leaving the mortal coil.

Thankfully, she is saved from saying anything more when a jeep rolls up. And ironically she can put her conflict about her "gift" behind her by leaping into action. After watching her help walk a wounded man inside, Eugene stands up and follows.

* * *

By the time they bring in Gordon, Eugene is starting to crack with the strain.

He watches the aid station medics take care of Gordon for a while. He knows he needs to get back to the line fast, but his body is numb and unwilling to move. He doesn't want to go back to that bloodbath, watching his friends die when there is nothing he can do. Sure, maybe he can save some of them, but there's some things that are beyond the power of any medic. Being blasted to pieces by a mortar, having limbs blown off, maybe it's something as simple as a well-aimed bullet to the heart. There's nothing he can do against something like that.

Renée is bringing a wad of bandages out when she sees Eugene and stops. He is staring straight ahead, at nothing, really.

"Eugene?"

He turns to look at her, and the look in his eyes frightens her. It has only been a day since she's last seen him. How could he have changed so much so quickly? The young determined medic she knew is looking at her with haunted eyes. They are the heavy eyes of someone who has seen too much.

"Are you...are you all right?"

He doesn't answer, and Renée can hear somebody calling her. She raises her hand in a partial motion to tell him to stay, and hurries towards the caller.

He watches her go, her blue headscarf disappearing into the sea of the wounded.

* * *

If Harry Welsh hadn't been shot Eugene might not have found out what happened in town until the next day. As it happened, he arrived right on time and got a front row seat.

* * *

It is a long, cold walk back to the line.

Eugene can see the O.P. ahead of him. He stops before anybody sees him. He needs to be the stoic, steadfast Doc Roe they know. But right now his head is spinning, and he needs a moment to clear his head before he rejoins the others.

The memory is fresh, running through his head over and over again as he waits among the trees. Bombs falling on the town, the undersides of German planes overhead lit up briefly as the incendiaries did their work. Throughout the town men ran about, debris was falling, flames were bursting to life, but in the church the windows were blackened with ash, and the shadowy shapes of rubble were the only things that rose to greet him. He stayed just long enough to pull a blue triangle of fabric from the wreckage.

There's no more putting it off. Eugene steels himself, then walks out. He passes several officers and Winters, cocooned in his foxhole, without looking or speaking to them. He slides into the first open foxhole he sees and takes a look at the occupant. Heffron.

"Everything ok?" Eugene's voice is remarkably steady. "Babe?"

Heffron doesn't answer, just nods and wipes his nose with his hand. There's a crust of dried blood and an open wound on it. Eugene takes Heffron's hand and looks at it. "How'd you do that?"

Heffron looks at him. "You did that." His voice is flat but not accusatory.

Eugene doesn't remember doing it, but doesn't argue. "I'll fix it up."

He reaches into his pocket for a bandage and feels a piece of cloth. Thinking it's one of the sheet strips, he pulls it out. But he's wrong. It's Renée's headscarf. He'd almost forgotten it was there.

The first time he saw it the blue had been soothing. Now it hurts his eyes. He turns the kerchief over in his hands and presses his lips together tightly because the emotions he thought he had carefully put away are threatening to spill over. He balls it up and goes to stuff it back in his pocket. Then he stops, pulls it back out, and shakes it open.

It rips cleanly down the middle, and Eugene sets half aside as he reaches into his bag for sulfa. Babe doesn't take any notice of the unusual bandage, instead saying, "Hey Gene. You called me Babe."

"I did?" Yet another thing he can't remember. "When?"

"Just now."

"Babe..." Eugene says the name slowly, tasting it. It feels good. It rolls off his tongue easily, as if he's been dying to say it. "I guess I did." He tears open the sulfa package and starts sprinkling it on Babe's hand.

"_Babe._" Heffron imitates Eugene's deep Louisiana drawl with exaggerated widened eyes and pursed lips. Eugene just gives him a look.

"Heffron, watch the goddamn line."

Babe laughs and Eugene finishes tying on the bandage.

* * *

The other half of the headscarf is still in Eugene's pocket. The night after he found it, alone in his foxhole, he winds it around his hand as he recites the line from St. Francis' prayer. Eugene doesn't carry a rosary with him anymore; last time he prayed he used a length of string that he has been carrying around for that express purpose. He figures the scarf will do just as well.

_Oh Lord, grant that I may never seek so much to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, or to be loved as to love, with all my heart._

He says it again, slowly, winding the scarf around his hand so tightly he can feel himself cutting off his circulation. He needs to feel the calming effect of prayer, needs it now more than ever.

"...to be loved as to love, with all my heart. With all my heart."

Slowly he unwinds the blue cloth and folds it up, putting it back carefully in his jacket pocket. The rest of the chocolate bar is still in there; he'd given it to Babe, but Babe only took a small bite before giving it back. Eugene takes it out now and breaks off a piece, putting it in his mouth. It is hard as a rock and takes a moment before it is soft enough to chew.

He takes off his helmet and runs a hand through his spiky dark hair. He doesn't cry, but in the cold and the darkness he gives himself a minute to think not only of Renée, but of everybody else lost to the war. A minute to let all his emotions cross his face, where heretofore they have been forbidden. Even though nobody can see him, he still covers his face with his hand.


	3. Chapter 3

Bastogne is gray. The sky is crisp, pale and wintery, the clouds sparse. On the ground, half melted slush is trampled under foot and tire, dirt bleeding into the snow as it is crushed. Rubble, blackened with ash, lines the roads in piles, and the half standing skeletons of houses tower above them, empty. Cinders blow into Eugene's eyes as they drive by.

He almost averts his eyes when they pass the church. The outer walls are still standing, but the windows are blown out, the sides of the building are streaked with black, and Eugene knows that inside is a mountain of fallen stone and wood, dust settling over it finely. He keeps his gaze straight though, face unfaltering and immovable.

Eugene isn't bringing in wounded this time. He's here for supplies. Thanks to General Patton, supplies are flowing in again, and Eugene doesn't want to risk being empty handed again in the near future. The jeep brings him to a school in town where the wounded have been moved to, as the building miraculously survived the bombing intact. Eugene isn't the only one with the idea of restocking; medics from all companies are swarming about, gathering up what they need. Eugene doesn't waste a moment. He gets a box and starts filling it with all that which has been lacking the last few weeks, morphine, bandages, plasma. He picks up a few extra pairs of scissors as well, just in case.

He is about to leave when he hears a voice. A young woman's voice, brisk as it gives orders on where to lay the newly wounded. Eugene sets the box down and looks up...and there she is. Standing at the door of the school, waving in the men bearing stretchers.

Eugene steps towards her slowly, hardly believing what he is seeing. Before he knows it he is right in front of her. She looks up and smiles when she sees him.

"Eugene!"

She looks at him and smiles like nothing is amiss, but he is unsure of what to do. He offers her a smile, but one that is shaky because his mind is racing with gratitude and relief at the sight of her. He can hardly form a sentence, because this is a first in his line of work. Somebody has come back from the dead.

"Eugene?" Now she is concerned. He shakes himself and smiles again, more normally this time.

"I'm sorry, I just...I can't believe it. I thought you were dead," he said simply. "The bombing..."

Her eyes widen as she understands. "No, I was lucky. I was on a truck moving the wounded when the church was hit. Anna got out as well."

"I'm glad to hear it. See, I found–" Eugene stops suddenly, wondering what she will make of the fact that he had found and kept her headscarf.

"Found what?"

"Your kerchief. The blue one." She has not replaced it and her head is bare, her brown hair tightly braided and coiled up on the back of her head. "It was in the rubble."

"Renée!" A man was calling for her. "Where should these men go?" A jeep has just pulled up to the door, bearing three wounded men.

"I'm needed," she says apologetically. She smiles, the same sweet smile she'd given him when she gave him the chocolate. "It was good to see you, Eugene." She hurries away, all business as usual when it comes to the wounded men. Eugene is glad she didn't ask for her headscarf back; in fact he feels absurdly guilty now that he tore it up. He picks up his box of supplies again and heads out. It is much later when he thinks on how glad he is that she is alive, because it turns out to be the best thing that happened during their time in Bastogne.

* * *

As Easy Company moves closer to Foy, their time in the Ardennes slowly changes from merely a particularly unpleasant part of the war to hell. Moving closer to the German line means Easy Company is in range of German artillery, and once the Germans determine their position, the shellings commence quickly.

Of everything he has seen in war, the shellings are the worst and most terrifying. Eugene can take tanks and infantry, when he can see the person who holds the gun. But a shelling is completely different. The sky is flashing black and white, trees are splintered like toothpicks, and the very ground under their feet explodes, while death falls from the sky. Somewhere there is a man in a German uniform launching the mortars, but in the woods, all Eugene can see is the indiscriminate death and destruction, as if it is not man, but nature tearing herself apart, trying to kill them. He can't help the wounded who are screaming in agony, he can't even hear the call for a medic over the almighty roaring of the shells. There is nothing he can do but stay low and pray to God for the hundredth time, please, _please_, let me live.

* * *

The longer they stay in Bastogne the more deaths he sees. Eugene can't believe it. First Hoobler, the poor kid. Then Muck and Penkala. Not to mention the loss of Guarnere, Toye, and Compton, who weren't dead, but off the line for good. The line of dead and dying and wounded is never ending and Eugene is exhausted. His nerves of steel are starting to fray.

He finds himself almost looking forward to when he has the luxury of moving a wounded man back to the town, because it means a rest as he's driven back, with nothing to worry about except holding the plasma bottle upright. And, of course, he gets to see Renée.

Having already accepted her death, Eugene has to remind himself that she is still alive the first few times he goes to the hospital after the bombing. Each time he sees her he feels another wave of relief, until finally he has convinced himself that she is here to stay.

She may not think herself an angel, but the more Eugene sees of her, the more he disagrees with her. She doesn't actually do much medical work; Anna takes care of that. But the men are happiest to see her. When she speaks to a wounded man her voice is low and comforting, and her touch calms even the most hysterical patients. And Eugene can hardly deny the effect she has on him. When he stops by the aid station it is like a load has been lifted off his shoulders. He smiles more around her, and his smiles come easily and naturally. He talks more, telling her snippets of his life in Louisiana, sometimes things about the other men. Not too much–the habit of being withdrawn and distant is still too strong in him. But things will just slip out when he least expects it.

Eugene is unable to explain this slow but steady change. It is Renée's presence, yes, but exactly what it is about her he cannot pin down. She is not that different from a hundred other girls he has known both in Europe and in Louisiana. Plain brown hair and blue eyes, in a face that is neither beautiful nor homely. She is gentle and kind, but he has seen gentleness and kindness in every nurse he's met. Every time he sets his mind to figuring out what the something that makes her different is, it evades him. Needless to say, it is quite frustrating.

For her part, Renée is always glad to see Eugene as well, and glad to see him opening up ever so slightly. He is like a bird, she thinks, when he begins talking to her. Coming closer to her in tiny steps, but ready to fly away at the first sight of danger. He talks easily for a while, then, without warning, his face will close and he will stop. She never tries to make him say more though; that is not her place. It is enough for her to see that frighteningly dull look in his eyes disappear over time. She doesn't know that it is because of her that his eyes began to brighten. She doesn't know that it is because of her that he smiles a bit more, and that he looks forward to seeing her every time he goes back to the church. She doesn't know how much she has helped him without even meaning to. She does not think of herself as a saint, nor an angel, nor a worker of miracles. She is only a girl who brings bandages, washes away blood, and holds the hands of dying men.

* * *

Renee is rolling newly washed bandages when she hears her name being called softly. Looking up, she sees Eugene in the doorway. He asks if she has a minute, so she sets her work aside and follows him out the hallway to a smaller classroom. In the aftermath of the recent attack on Foy the hospital is more crowded than ever, but this room is used for storage and is empty but for boxes.

He talks, and she listens. His unit, Easy Company, is leaving Bastogne now that Foy has been taken. They're bound for the town of Noville, which they are planning to take next.

He is leaving.

Renée is unsure of why the news hits her so hard. They are friendly, yes, but she hardly knows Eugene. Their contact is sporadic, sometimes nothing more than a few minutes every couple of days. Fighting men have been entering and leaving her life at the drop of a hat ever since she became a nurse, why should this be any different? Her mind is an agitated jumble as she stares at him, a rush of too many thoughts coming together. She tries to say something, but the words stick in her throat. As she tries to unravel the tangled mess of her thoughts she realizes that despite what she though earlier, she does know Eugene. She knows him well enough to want him to stay, even though Eugene has stayed much longer than most of the others. Long enough that she'd almost forgotten that eventually he would have to leave, and now she is remembering too quickly.

"Well, I..." He stops, looks at the ground, looks up again. "I just wanted to say goodbye."

The word sounds so final and awful Renée doesn't even want to think about it, but she can't avoid it. "I don't suppose you'll come through here again."

"No, after Noville we're being moved to Haguenau. We probably won't come back to Belgium unless there's more fighting to be done." His words only confirm what she has known the entire time: that after he leaves, she will never see him again.

"I see." The words fall from her lips quietly.

He opens his mouth to speak, but she forestalls him. "Wait, please." She hurries out of the room to the place she keeps her jacket. There is a scrap of paper in the pocket, and she borrows a pen from one of the doctors. When she goes back to Eugene she hands him the paper. He looks down and reads it. She's written her address on it.

"If you want to keep in touch," she explains. Then she watches him nervously for a reaction. She had done it on an impulse; the idea had not even entered her mind before that very minute. But she suddenly felt so stricken at his leaving that she couldn't just let him leave with nothing. However, now she worries that it was too forward, too presumptuous of her. Her fears are assuaged, though, when Eugene looks up with a small smile.

"I'd like that," he says, and tucks the paper into his jacket pocket. Renée doesn't know it, but it's the same pocket where he keeps his string for prayer, a photo of his family, and the other half of her headscarf.

She sees him to the door, where she gives him another bar of chocolate. This time she hands it to him as she says, "Au revoir, Eugene." She desperately wants to say more, but all the words that come to her mind feel wrong, so she lets the chocolate speak for her.

He takes the bar and puts it in his bag. His eyes linger on her face and there is a slight pause before he says,

"Goodbye."

As she watches him move towards the jeep she wonders if he will even remember her.

She watches the jeep drive off. He looks back once, and she catches her last glimpse of Eugene Roe as he is carried away and back to war.

* * *

**_A/N: This chapter is not that great, I apologize TT_TT It feels rushed, choppy, and altogether poorly written. I spent all week on it but it still doesn't feel right, and I wanted to update at least once a week so I just went ahead and posted it. I may rewrite this and update later in the future. Anyways, thank you for reading! I'd also like to thank ChocAndSnow19 and airborneIMPREZA, who were so kind as to leave reviews on the earlier chapters. Reviews are always loved, thank you~_**


	4. Chapter 4

He writes the first letter in Rachamps, by the unsteady flickering of candles in the convent. Eugene hasn't written many letters since the war started. Just a few to his mother, whenever he got the opportunity. The most pressing obstacle to letter writing was the lack of materials; he could hardly ever find paper during the month in Bastogne. Luckily the nuns have paper aplenty, and pens.

He is stuck before he even writes the first word. To his mother, he writes "dear", but that seems too familiar to use with Renée. But to use no salutation at all feels cold. He is not even sure how to classify their relationship. Acquaintances? Friends? Colleagues?

In the end he settles on just "To Renée". Having got that part down, he now wonders what he should write to her about. Not the battles. Eugene doubts she is interested in such things. Not the hardship of the men or his work. As a nurse, she has seen plenty of the horrors of war. The pen in his hand remains unmoving as minutes tick by and Eugene wonders what on earth he is supposed to write about.

Instead of battles or wounds, he writes about the convent. He writes about how glad everybody is to have a night to just relax. He writes about the choir, and what the church looks like, bathed in the golden glow of a hundred candles. It's a pathetic topic, but he honestly has no idea what else to write about.

He signs the letter with just "Eugene". He rereads it, wondering what she will think. He imagines her reactions, the way she will furrow her brow or tilt her head when reading. A butterfly starts up in his stomach as he wonders what she is expecting from him. There's no use fretting about it though, so he folds up the paper, puts it in an envelope, and seals it. He copies her address onto the envelope carefully, looking at the paper she gave him multiple times to check that he's got it right. When he's satisfied, he gives it to one of the nuns to mail, and goes to rejoin the others in the nave.

The mood of the men is relaxed, and Eugene breathes a deep sigh of relief. The choir sings angelically, and as Eugene leans back in the pew he closes his eyes, thankful beyond words for this night of reprieve. The others are no doubt relieved that for tonight their lives are not on the line, but if possible, Eugene is more so. Tonight there are no wounds to bandage, no trees exploding around them, no flares hissing as they fly overhead like oversized comets, momentarily blazing brighter than the sun. It is their first night indoors since they first reached Bastogne over a month ago. Everything about the church feels unreal, from the beautiful singing to the sulfurous glow of the candles. The men, grimy and exhausted, are out of place in this small piece of heaven. Nobody is very talkative. Instead, each man silently savors this stolen moment of peace.

* * *

Renée's reply finds him in Haguenau. She wrote back telling him how pleased she was to receive his letter, what life is like in Bastogne now that there's no longer fighting in the area. American troops still occupy the area and the town has to rebuild substantially, but life goes on. She is still working as a nurse, but the number of patients has gone down drastically now that the wounded are able to be evacuated. When he finishes reading he starts over again.

Eugene is surprised at how Renée's letter affects him. Reading it is like a breath of fresh air, not unlike the night spent in Rachamps. In the war-torn town of Haguenau, Renée's letter, neatly written in blue ink, is a reminder that somewhere out there, there is a place that war no longer ravages. That there are other people in the world beyond Easy Company and the Germans. Sometimes, it's all too easy to forget.

He puts her letter in a side pocket of his bag so it doesn't get crushed. His hand brushes the rest of the chocolate, the paper and foil folded over to keep it closed. He'd opened it when they first arrived in Haguenau, a few days ago; there is still more than half left. He breaks off a bite and pops it in his mouth. The dark chocolate is not as sweet as he would like, but it is good. Apparently some of the other guys got their hands on some Hershey bars earlier. Liebgott offered Eugene one, but he declined. He thought he should probably finish the one Renée gave him first.

* * *

It is night, and Eugene is lying flat on a bunk bed in one of the bombed out houses in Haguenau. In the room with him are Spina, Skinny, Shifty, and Luz, all asleep. Renée's letter is lying open on his chest. The room is dark, torn curtains half obscuring the moonlight that filters through the cracked windowpanes. Against the darkness the moonlight outlines Eugene's profile like the silver lining of a cloud. A cigarette is held between his lips and after a long drag he exhales slowly, pale dragons of smoke curling from his breath to dissipate in the night air.

It's been about two days since he received her letter, but he hasn't written a reply yet. He was going to, that day, but Jackson's death stopped that. Eugene thought he was over this now, but each death still cuts. In the darkness Jackson's screaming and crying come back to haunt him, echoing in his mind as if he were still alive, half his face torn to pieces by his own grenade.

_"I don't want to die! I don't want to die!"_

Jackson had lied about his age to join the Army at 16. Did his parents approve? Did they even encourage him, maybe, convinced as everybody was that the best thing a young man could do was fight for his country? Eugene wonders what his parents will think when they get the letter from the war department. Reading the neatly typed message in that stern black ink, on crisp, clean paper that bears the news of death, like an evil omen. _Dear Mrs. Jackson. It is with deep regret that I am writing to inform you..._

During the day he can distract himself with work, but at night, alone with his thoughts, they skulk their way in and begin to take root. He'd taken Renée's letter out to read again to divert his attention, to feel again that breath of fresh air he'd felt when he read it the first time. It worked, mostly, until he put the letter down and Jackson's screams started up again in his head.

Eugene folds up Renée's letter and puts it in his jacket, which is hanging off the bedpost. Once again, he wonders what he should write to her when he replies. Again, he doesn't want to include anything about the war. Eugene isn't sure why he is trying to avoid these topics. Renée is a nurse, she's seen the worst the war has to offer. In fact she might even be expecting him to write about the war, and is wondering why he hasn't. Eugene considers telling her about Jackson. How he had lied to join the Army, how he had been a bit like a kid brother to the rest of the company, and how he had died. Even as he entertains the idea he can see the sentences forming in his mind. As Eugene takes another drag, the lit tip of his cigarette briefly flares a bright, fiery orange.

* * *

When Eugene writes back he writes about Easy Company's trip from Rachamps to Haguena, what the company has been doing since they arrived, the patrol, and finally, Jackson's death. He is startled at how easy it was. The story seemed to spin itself from ink and paper, the words spilling out of the pen and stumbling over themselves. Before he knew it he had finished.

As he lays the pen down, he feels something different. It is not unlike how he used to feel in Bastogne when he saw Renée at the hospital, like a load had been lifted off him. It is a cool and cleansing relief, and he is surprised at himself for the depth of his feeling. He feels like a pent-up dam suddenly releasing the floods it has been holding back, letting everything out in a sudden rush from mind to pen to paper.

He rereads his letter. He has spared Renée little of the story, including everything that came to mind, even the grislier details such as Jackson's agonized crying, and how he seemed to choke on his own blood as he died. Again, he worries about what she will think. It's hardly the kind of letter a girl expects to receive, but Eugene is an honest man and doesn't like to hide the truth as he sees it. Besides, Renée is hardly a delicate flower either. When he looked into her eyes he saw a girl, yes, but he also saw strength, and frankness. She doesn't seem like the type to thank him for hiding the war from her.

Eugene knows all this, but still can't suppress a twinge of doubt as he rereads. But he doesn't have time to rewrite it, and anyways, throwing this one away would be a waste of ink and paper.

* * *

**_This chapter's a bit shorter than the others, sorry about that. I ran into a bit of writer's block this last week so I didn't get to write as much as I wanted to. But I'll still try to stick to updating at least once a week, so please look forward to new chapters! Thanks ChocAndSnow19 and airborneIMPREZA again, for being such faithful reviewers! Reviews are always loved, if you are enjoying the story so far please leave a review, I would really appreciate it. Thanks!_**


	5. Chapter 5

One fresh spring night in Mourmelon, Eugene receives a letter in the mail. The handwriting and blue ink are familiar, and he smiles as he tears the envelope open, settling down in the barracks to read.

Eugene always reads her letters twice, the first time quickly, his eyes skimming over the words like a rock over water, touching down and lingering on a word for a few seconds every so often. The second time he reads slowly, penetratingly, absorbing the meaning more deeply this time.

He is much more at ease writing to Renée now, now that he has broken an invisible barrier with his letter about Jackson. Eugene finds that his writing comes easily, much more easily than if he were to say these things aloud. Reading and writing is cathartic, and Eugene finds himself always looking forward to another letter, the way he would look forward to seeing Renée in Bastogne. When he writes, stress seems to melt away as he pours stories of happiness and frustration and grief onto the paper. With each letter he opens himself up a little more, both to Renée and the other men. He is still quiet and introspective, but no longer adverse to befriending the men, and he finds himself happier for it.

Even the other guys have noticed the change in him, even if they don't remark on it. Usually the guys who write and receive letters the most are men like Martin, who are married. When Eugene starts accumulating a stack of letters, the others notice.

That night, as Eugene sits at a table penning his reply, Luz sits down across from him. He glances at Eugene's latter and says, "Hey, who you writing to so much these days, huh?" He leans forward, a knowing smile on his face. "A girl?"

Even though there is nothing but friendship between him and Renée, Eugene feels his face flush ever so slightly. Luckily, it isn't noticeable. He avoids Luz's eyes and just laughs a little, as if it was a joke. Luz doesn't take it that way though.

"So I'm right? A girl?" He raises his eyebrows mischievously.

Eugene shakes his head. "No, just...just a friend."

Luz leans back, puffs on his cigarette. "Sure, sure. Hey Spina, you know who Doc's lady friend is?"

"I didn't even know he had one," says Spina, who was passing by, but now stops. Eugene can feel the heat crawling up his neck.

"Jesus, guys, leave the doc alone," says Babe, rolling his eyes. "It's probably just his ma, or his sister."

Luz holds up his hands. "Whatever you say, Babe." He gets up and walks off but not before winking conspiratorially at Eugene. Babe sits down in Luz's place.

"Thanks, Babe," says Eugene.

"So who are you writing to?" asks Babe curiously, but with none of Luz's teasing. His eyes drift down to the paper but Eugene moves his hand casually to cover it up.

"I told you, just a friend."

"A girl?"

"Does it matter?"

Babe shrugs. "Guess it doesn't." He stands up and claps Eugene on the shoulder. "See you back at the barracks."

Eugene isn't sure why he doesn't want to the others to find out who he's writing to. After all, he told the truth. Renée is a friend. But Eugene is by nature a withdrawn and private person. He likes to keep things to himself, and he sees nothing wrong with that.

Later that night before he sleeps, he rereads one of her old letters. Unbeknownst to him, a hundred miles away, Renée is doing the same, opening one of his old letters and reading by the small lamp in her room, while sitting up in bed. They read each other's words together, yet apart.

* * *

When Renée is done she carefully folds up the letter, replaces it in its envelope, and puts it back in its place in the stack. The letters have begun to accumulate, and Renée keeps track of them by tying them together in a bundle, which she keeps in a drawer of her desk. Both she and Eugene are faithful correspondents, and the stack grows accordingly. Having put the newest letter away, she gets back in bed, but doesn't lie down right away. Instead she looks out the window, at Bastogne.

The town is still in the process of rebuilding, and the streets are still lined with rubble. She looks out at her neighbor's house, knowing that five blocks beyond it is the school-turned-hospital she is going to work at tomorrow. Her nurse uniform has been washed and starched and is hanging in her closet, ready for work. Despite her mother's best efforts, the ends of the sleeves are always tinged brown, stained by the blood Renée doesn't have time to wash off while she's working. Renée always shudders a little as she puts her arms through the sleeves, wondering just how many men have added their blood to her uniform. She swears to herself that the first thing she will do when she's done being a nurse will be to burn that uniform.

None of her friends are nurses. They help with the war effort, to be sure, but in different ways. They collect and donate food, sew blankets, and quarter convalescing soldiers in their homes. But they never nurse them like Renée does. "Oh, I wouldn't be able to," they say. "Working with all that blood and those horrible wounds? I couldn't do it." The few times Renée speaks about nursing to them, they look at her with a gaze that is all admiration and awe. "You're so brave, to do that kind of work, Renée," they tell her.

But Renée is not brave at all. The first time she saw a man brought to the hospital with a mortar wound, she froze at the sight of so much blood and torn flesh. She had been surprised at her own reaction. Renée knew, when she signed up, that nursing was not the glamorous, romantic thing people thought it to be. She knew it would be bloody and awful, and at times downright horrifying. She was a tough girl, though. But seeing that man with his chest ripped open, the blood pooling in the wound so thickly it was black instead of red, was unlike anything she had ever seen. That man wasn't the only one to stop her in her tracks. The first time she attended an amputation, she hadn't been able to look at the patient at all, just stared blindly at the floor, handing the doctor what he asked for.

The worst was when she saw a man who had been blinded by shrapnel, blood pouring out of his ravaged eye sockets, him alternating between screaming and crying. He was hysterical and clearly in agonizing pain, but the men who were in danger of dying were of higher priority to the doctors, so nobody attended to him. Renée knew it was supposed to be her job, but she couldn't do it. She wanted to run, and never go back to that horrible hospital. But then she shook herself, ashamed and disgusted at herself. _You wanted to help,_ she reminded herself._What good is a nurse who freezes every time she sees blood? You're made of tougher stuff._ She swallowed her nausea, walked over to the man, took his hand, and helped him sit down. She held his hand and talked to him soothingly, and by the time the doctors got around to him, he was calm, and able to talk coherently and lucidly.

Renée supposes that must have been the first time she used her "healing touch". But she didn't do it because she was being brave. She did it because it needed to be done. She is tired of people calling her what she isn't. She lets the men call her an angel and a saint because it helps them, but it's not true.

What would Eugene say, she wonders, if someone called him brave, for doing his job. She is sure he would disagree as well. Medics are easily construed by those who have no real understanding of their job as brave men, risking life and limb just to reach a wounded comrade, but Eugene has written that it is not that way at all.

He wrote to her once: _ I'm always jumpy, waiting on the edge of my seat in case somebody calls for a medic and I need to run. And when I am needed, I go without a second thought, because I have to. When I'm running to a wounded soldier there's no bravery, only adrenaline. It's almost like being drunk, when you are less inhibited and do things without thinking. So it's not bravery, just stupidity._

As their correspondence progressed, the topics became darker, more personal. As a medic to a nurse, they understand each other, have experienced similar things that nobody else that they know has experienced. From his writing she senses that he is still slightly wary of discussing these things, since he has grown so used to keeping the thoughts to himself. But again, she never presses him for information or asks questions that are too probing. That is not her place, and besides, she understands all too well the predicament of seeing men die and being unable to talk about it. Renée could never tell her mother, or her friends about the troubles she faces as a nurse. The doctors would only tell her to toughen up and soldier on. What they don't understand is that it takes a different type of toughness to keep your spirit up in the face of so much death than it does to amputate a leg.

As she sits in her bed looking out her window and thinking of Eugene, she realizes how glad she is to have him as a friend. Friendship has always seemed so arbitrary to her: so often, the people who become her friends are her friends simply because they were there at a certain time, as her next door neighbor, or her desk mate in school. If they had been switched with anybody else in the world, Renée might be friends with them instead. Of course she knows there is more to real friendship than that, but sometimes it still seems that way.

Eugene is different though, because he could have been just another person who entered her life briefly, then faded out, like so many strangers have done. No, not exactly. He was more than that. After all, he came to say goodbye to her, and for that she is intensely thankful. She wonders what would have happened if he didn't. One day he would have simply stopped coming to the hospital, and she might not even have realized it until weeks after he had gone, when she would look up one day, look down the road, and wonder why it seemed so long since she last saw him, and then it would dawn on her.

She had been so happy to receive his first letter. As simple as it was, she treasured it, because it meant that he had not forgotten her. He wanted to keep in touch. He valued her as a friend. She wonders if she will ever see him again.

It is getting late, and she needs to be up early to go to work. Softly she draws the curtain, and turns the lamp off.

* * *

_**A bit more focus on Renée this chapter! I thought I didn't have enough of her thoughts in the story yet so this chapter is the remedy to that. Hope you enjoyed it! Thanks to Paratrooper56 for a lovely review last chapter! Reviews are always appreciated, I would love it if you would leave a review~**_


	6. Chapter 6

As the jeeps rumble from Sturzelberg to Landsberg, there is a definite lightheartedness in the air. It is inexplicable, pervasive, and infectious, and as Easy Company rolls through the countryside of Germany, Eugene finds himself singing along with the others as they lift their voices in a grisly verse of "Blood Upon the Risers".

"Never heard you sing, doc!" says Tab with a grin. "You're not half bad." Eugene shrugs in halfhearted embarrassment. There have been so few days like this one, that there is no time to feel bashful or shy. Eugene only wants to enjoy it. How ironic, he reflects, that the most he's felt at peace since the war started is in Germany, the heart of the enemy.

Their time in Mourmelon refreshed the company, and like everybody else, Eugene begins to allow himself to think that maybe, just maybe, what remains of Easy Company will be able to make it home alive. After Haguenau, Easy Company became an occupation force rather than a combat force. War in the European theater was dying down as the Nazis were pushed farther and farther back. Maybe...but no. Eugene doesn't want to give himself too much hope, but he can't help the thought slipping into his mind. Maybe he would not have to see a comrade die in front of him again.

As the trucks near Landsberg, the men continue to sing.

* * *

Easy Company has only been in Landsberg for a few hours when Winters calls the entire company together to see what it is Perconte and the others found in the woods. There is nervous churning in his stomach as they ride, although Eugene isn't sure why. He can't suppress the feeling of trepidation that keeps rising up and resorts to taking deep breaths and clenching his fists inside his jacket pockets where nobody can see.

The woods where they stop are eerily quiet, entirely devoid of the rustle of wildlife or birdsong. The trucks pull towards a clearing where they stop and the men climb out. A slight scent drifts towards the approaching men, thick and smoky and stinking, getting stronger the closer they get. Several of the men nearly gag and have to put handkerchiefs over their mouths and noses to breathe. Eugene can almost ignore the smell though, as his eyes are focused on high barbed wire fence in front of him. As he gets closer he can see a gate shut with a heavy chain and padlock. And behind the fence...

He registers the faces, the shaven heads, the skeleton-like limbs, but only for a moment, because all the details come together into a bigger picture: these are people who need help. As a medic, it is his job to help people who need it, and his mind immediately thinks of what he should do first. While he is preparing a plan of action, however, most of the other men have been stunned into silence. They can only stare, horrified and disbelieving. Nobody says anything, not the soldiers, not the men in the barbed wire cage.

As soon as the gate is opened Eugene gets to work.

* * *

_Dear Renée,_

Eugene stops after writing the first line. Back at Landsberg, in the house the soldiers are temporarily occupying, he sits at a kitchen table, paper in front of him and pen in hand, trying to write to Renée, since he's fallen a bit behind during the move from Mourmelon. However hard he wracks his brain though, he can't find the words.

He writes slowly, stalling for time even though nobody is pressuring him. _I'm sorry this letter is a bit late–Easy Company was being moved to Landsberg, and I didn't have an opportunity to send any letters. We arrived in Landsberg this morning, but Major Winters doesn't expect we'll be staying long._

He stops again.

When he wrote to her about Jackson, he had made a decision not to hide things, no matter how horrible, from Renée. That decision had been what kept him sane over the last few months, the luxury of telling another human being and have them understand what it was like. What he saw today, however, is beyond description, and Eugene finds himself rethinking his decision.

The images come back to haunt him. It is beyond imagination, what they saw today. Skeletal hands reaching, emaciated bodies that shook with the effort of standing, breaths that rattled in dry throats. And the eyes, _God, the eyes_. Sunken and shadowed with emptiness, devoid even of despair or rage. It was clear the prisoners were past that. It was a miracle that any of them were alive at all.

There are three lines on his paper. The empty expanse challenges him, daring him to write more. Eugene's pen hovers an inch above the paper.

* * *

In the end, this is what Eugene's letter reads:

_Dear Renée,_

_I'm sorry this letter is a bit late–Easy Company was being moved to Landsberg, and I didn't have an opportunity to send any letters. We arrived in Landsberg this morning, but Major Winters doesn't expect we'll be staying long._

_I've got something rather terrible to tell you about this time, so just be warned as you read, because this is not going to be a happy letter._

_When we got into town E Company was assigned to patrol the woods. We didn't really expect to find anything, but Frank Perconte came running back saying they'd found something the major needed to see. Winters called the entire company together, and we headed out._

_I don't know how I can describe this to you so that you will be able to fully realize the sheer horror of what we found today. It was a work camp–in German, the word is arbeitslager. At least, that was what it was in name. In reality, it was a death camp. Piles of corpses lay everywhere, hastily half-buried by the Nazis before they fled, and the stench of death was thick on the air. There were survivors. Hundreds of men, starved and broken by the force of hard labor, oppression, and unbridled disgust. They were painfully, horrifyingly thin, so brittle that it seemed that they would break from a gust of Nazis would not even submit a rabid dog to the kind of treatment they gave these men we found. And these men were subjected to this why? Because they were Jewish._

_I can't get the images out of my head. Somehow when my friends die in my arms I manage to soldier on, but the suffering of these strangers has seared itself into my brain. Renée, you have no idea, the sheer brutality that that camp possessed. The prisoners had numbers tattooed on their arms. They weren't men, they were cattle. You should have seen the way they attacked the food we brought them. It was like watching starving, desperate animals, seeing they way they clamored for bread. Nothing else in the world mattered to them as much as that precious fistful of bread._

_When we got back to town for the night I went to check on Joe Liebgott. He is one of the few Jewish men in Easy Company, and I think he had been hit the hardest by the discovery than the rest of us. He pushed me away though, first saying "I'm fine, Doc," when I asked him if he was alright. When I persisted he just ignored me, turning away to hide his face. I let him be, because there wasn't anything I could do anyways, besides let him know I was there for him. I told Webster to keep an eye on him and let me know how he's doing._

_I'm sorry this letter is so short, but I didn't want to horrify you too much with too many details. However, I did want to tell you, because I figured eventually you'd find out anyways, and I didn't want to hide it._

_Yours,_

_Eugene_

* * *

_**Sorry for another short chapter, I was busy this week with moving back to school so I didn't get to write much. I hope you enjoyed the chapter anyways. Only two more chapters left in this story! Thanks to ChocAndSnow19, Paratrooper56, and God's Soldier With a Message for your kind reviews! As always, reviews are loved and appreciated~**_


	7. Chapter 7

Easy Company is in Austria when they get the news that they are being redeployed.

Ever since V-E Day the men had let themselves fall into a false sense of security, that it would be no time at all now before they went home. Somehow they had forgotten that halfway around the world the war raged on, and that the Axis Powers were made of more than just Germany and Italy. The Japs continue to put up a fierce fight even as they are hammered back slowly, island by island, back to their own territory.

Rumors had been flying about that the 101st would be redeployed, and each time it was brought up, the men agreed that they would probably be sent to the Pacific before too long. No man wanted to risk being optimistic enough to hope they would get to go home instead, but the ember was there, burning low but persistently.

The official announcement comes after the lottery. "The 101st will definitely be redeployed to the Pacific," says Speirs. "Tomorrow at 0600, we begin training to go to war." With those two lines he squashes out the ember, and a collective sigh seems to ripple across the men as they hear what they had expected, but dreaded.

Some of the men have enough points to go home, but not many. Most of the men who were wounded enough to have that many points have already been long gone, taken off the front lines by one injury too many. Others–too many– are dead. The rest of Easy Company are replacements or Toccoa men, who, by the grace of God, were only wounded once or twice or never, but do not have the points to go home and will now have to face even more fighting. Eugene can't think of too many men who will be going home. He knows he sure doesn't have enough points himself. Besides, amongst the Toccoa men at least, nobody wants to leave the others to face the Pacific alone.

There is no set date for their jump into Japan yet, so Easy Company hangs about Austria for the time being. There is little for Eugene to do, with no fighting, and in the beginning he finds his days to be empty, hours stretched long and thin with nothing to do. It's not that he misses bandaging bloody limbs, but it was his purpose. Without it, wearing his uniform, he feels useless.

He spends his time relaxing, wandering the town with the others, and writing to Renée, describing everything. Austria is unlike any other place they've been, so green and lush and beautiful. When he thinks of Haguenau, drab and gray, or the forests of Bastogne, hell on Earth, Austria seems like a veritable slice of Heaven.

* * *

Eugene hears of Janovec's death secondhand, from Webster. He'd been killed in a car crash. Nobody called for a medic because he was already dead when they brought him back. Eugene feels a twisting in his stomach, that familiar ache he has felt too often in the last three years. The war was supposed to be over, but men were still dying. In a car crash, of all things. Eugene presses his lips together to suppress his anger at the unremarkable cause of death. For a man who had braved artillery and gunfire and tanks to die in a car crash, well, that was just sickeningly ironic and mundane. Who would have thought that such a man was still capable of dying like a rabbit run over by a car? Not that the men of Easy Company thought themselves immortal; quite the opposite. But there was some sort of injustice in Janovec's death that Eugene can't shake. He should have died in his own bed, at the age of 80, his loved ones at his side. That was the death he deserved.

Janovec had had seventy-five points. Ten more points, and he could have gone home. Instead he lay stiff and cold under a blanket in the back of an ambulance. Eugene can only feel saddened and sickened as he walks away.

* * *

For the first time in weeks, Eugene hears the call of "Medic!". He springs into action, running out into the main street. It is the middle of the night and dark as all hell, but a jeep is rattling into town, headlights on full glare. The light must have lit up his red cross armband, because the the calls for a medic get louder, more frantic. Eugene runs over as the jeep stops. Two privates he recognizes vaguely are in the jeep. Replacements. One is driving, the other in the back. Slung across the back is a man Eugene does recognize. Grant.

"What happened?" demands Eugene, hurrying to the back where he can see Grant's face. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow. It is too dark to see anything, but from the light reflecting off the cobblestones Eugene can see a dark, shiny pool of liquid. He touches Grant's head gingerly. The slippery, tacky feeling is instantly familiar. Blood.

"He was shot in the head," says one of the privates, his voice shaking. "There was a private, he was one of our guys, on the road...he had a gun...I think he was drunk. Sergeant Grant was trying to calm him down, and then the guy just shot him."

Eugene reaches into his bag for bandages and begins gently cleaning Grant's head, trying to hide his dread. Men rarely recovered from head wounds, and this one seems bad. His voice stays calm as he gives orders, though. "You, in the front." The private at the wheel sits up. "Find Speirs. Tell him what happened, then bring him here." The private nods and dashes off into the night. To the other, Eugene says, "Help me. Hold this bandage here." While he does so, Eugene wraps Grant's head up carefully.

At the aid station, Eugene's stomach drops when they turn the light on Grant's wound. It is worse than he thought. The private who drove is in the room, and Speirs is there as well, holding Grant's hand as the doctor takes a look. Eugene holds the blood transfusion bottle, watching the doctor.

The doctor straightens up, sighs in defeat. "He's not going to make it."

Eugene can't believe it. "You mean you can't operate on him?" It's not as if they are lacking for supplies or facilities.

The doctor shakes his head. "Not me. You'd have to have a brain surgeon. And even then, I don't think he's got much of a chance." The doctor takes a drag of his cigarette.

Speirs' eyes dart back and forth, his mouth opens and closes, his mind working furiously. Then he lets go of Grant's hand and picks up the end of the board he is lying on. "Come on, help me," he says.

The private picks up the other end, and Eugene has to follow as they move Grant out of the room. "Where are we going?" asks the private, bewildered.

"We're going to find a brain surgeon!"

Speirs stops briefly to give Talbert some instructions on finding the shooter before loading Grant back onto the jeep and driving out. He'd gotten word there was a good doctor nearby, and they pull up to his house quickly.

Speirs' knocking is brisk, and the doctor comes to the door quickly, looking perplexed as he is forced to the jeep by gunpoint. Upon seeing Grant, he stops, looks from Speirs to Eugene, who is still holding the blood transfusion bottle.

"What happened to him?"

"He was shot in the head," explains Eugene, as the doctor leans down for a closer look.

"A half-hour ago," says Speirs quietly, his expression softening. Speirs makes for the driver's seat, but the doctor stops him.

"Let me drive. We'll get there faster." Speirs doesn't argue, and gets in on the other side.

Thankfully, Grant turns out to be the last man Eugene ever has to treat. He survives. Both his survival, and Janovec's death, are reported to Renée in his letters.

Not once since their first letters has there been a gap in Renée and Eugene's correspondence. The letters are tied in a thick bundle in his musette bag, and the sheer amount surprises him almost every time he sees it. Eugene wonders how he might have fared if he hadn't had Renée to write to. Sure he probably would have staggered along, but writing had cleared his mind so well. He can't imagine keeping everything he has written all pent up anymore.

As he thinks about Renée, Eugene thanks God fervently that she survived the bombing of Bastogne, because he cannot imagine what the rest of the war might have been like for him, to be brooding and lonely with nobody to confide in. Even from hundreds of miles away, she softened and healed him. Renée was truly an angel.

He still carries her headscarf in his pocket wherever he goes, a reminder of her healing touch, and in the hope that he might learn the same softness, not knowing that he already has it. The same quiet, unobtrusive healing power that might be contained in a bar of chocolate.

It always came back to chocolate with Renée. How strange, that two people could have met and their lives entangled so just because of a fateful bar of chocolate, tossed from one to the other. Although long gone, it left its mark on the world in its own way, in the form of two stacks of letters.

* * *

Easy Company is playing baseball when they hear the news.

The war is over.

The Japanese have surrendered. The war is absolutely, completely over.

There will be no more fighting, no redeployment, only homecoming. The men are silent again as Winters talks, trying to digest the news. It is hard to comprehend. That which has occupied their life for three years...could it really be over at the simple utterance of one sentence?

The war is over.

Eugene has to say the phrase to himself multiple times, tasting the strangeness of it. Why is it so hard to fathom? It has only been three years, but the war has come to dominate his life. His role as a medic was his purpose. He had long left behind any real hopes of returning home. Indeed, Eugene finds it hard to remember home as something that had once been real. His life in Louisiana seems a dream now, and war his harsh reality. But now...he is going home. He tries to remember his home, the house in Louisiana, his father's shrimp fishing boat, his mother's smile. Slowly they become clear in his mind as the simple thought begins to take root. _The war is over. I am going home._

The other men break out in laughter and smiles. Somebody claps Eugene on the shoulder, and then he finds himself smiling with them. They turn and begin to head out, arms around each other's shoulders, voices raised with jokes and laughter. The sun is shining down on them like a benediction, and Eugene can't help but think how perfect it all is.

* * *

Eugene says goodbye to the men of Easy when they arrive back in New York. Everybody is going their separate ways. Babe and Spina to Philadelphia, Luz to Manhattan, Webster to Boston, Liebgott to San Francisco, and all the rest of them. They all hug, promise to write and keep in touch, maybe even have a reunion sometime soon. Eugene leaves the others with a smile, thanking God that he was fortunate enough to serve with men like these. He says his last goodbyes, and gets on a train back to Louisiana.

From the train station he takes a taxi back home. Eugene is quiet during the ride, looking out the window and watching Louisiana rush by him. Seeing the familiar streets of his neighborhood is surreal. Everything is so calm and quiet, as if it had been standing there for a hundred years, and would stand there for a hundred years more, in peace and undisturbed. For the last three years Eugene has remembered his home as if from a half-remembered dream, and seeing it in front of him, in all its realness, is jarring. Some things have changed. There is a new deli on the corner where there wasn't when he left. A bookstore he liked to go to has been demolished, a laundromat in its place. A dog he doesn't recognize strolls down the street. His home has changed, but so has he.

Eugene wonders how he is going to fit into civilian life again. He wonders how he is going to be able to tell his family about his experience. Even now, the only person he can really tell these things to is Renée.

Renée. He had wanted to see her again, one last time, before he returned to America, but was unable to find an opportunity, or the means, to get to Bastogne again. While regrettable, it was to be expected. Instead he wrote her one last letter the night before he boarded the ship, giving her his address in Louisiana so they could continue to write.

The taxi takes him right to the driveway of his house. He collects his bags and stands on the sidewalk, looking up at the house he has not seen since he enlisted in the paratroopers. Inside is his father, mother, brothers and sisters. If seeing a house shakes him so, what will seeing the faces of his family do?

Slowly he hefts his bag over his shoulder and makes his way to the front door and rings the doorbell.

His mother opens the door. She looks up at him, wide-eyed, mouth open in a gasp of joy and surprise. He offers her a shy half-smile.

"I'm back."

* * *

A few weeks later, Eugene idly opens the mailbox to pick up the mail for his mother. And sitting on top is an envelope addressed to him, in a neat handwriting and blue ink. He smiles as he picks it up.

Their correspondence continues for several months after the war ended, until one day, Eugene moves house. He is careful to tell Renée in his last letter to her, giving her his new address so they can continue to write. But he never receives another letter from her. He waits and waits, but hears nothing. In the end, he figures his letter to her must have been lost.

* * *

**_Almost at the end! Only one more chapter to go! Even though this is pretty much the end of Renee and Eugene's story. This chapter turned out to be a bit longer, but that's good, it makes up for the short one last week. I feel like I wrapped things up a bit too quickly but school started this week and I didn't have much time to write, I literally wrote this chapter in between classes and polished it up a bit at 11:30 at night. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading, reviews are always appreciated!_**


	8. Chapter 8

_Paris, 1951_

The Seine is lined with the dark green stands of _bouqinistes, _secondhand and antique books stacked from top to bottom. Postcards spin in circular wire stands and posters, unrolled and hanging freely, rustle as the wind runs through them.

Renée strolls along the Quai Saint-Michel, enjoying the brisk fall air that blows through her hair. She has stopped at a booth to look more closely at a vintage print of the Eiffel Tower, when she hears a voice drift over to her from the next booth over. "C'est combiens?" It is asking how much something costs. But the words are not what causes her to turn her head, it is the sound of the voice. Slow and deep, with a drawl that hangs on the air like the humidity of a hot summer's day. French, with an accent that is both strange and unmistakable to her ear. She looks over and not ten feet from her is Eugene Roe.

He is wearing black pants, a dark gray dress shirt, and suspenders, looking crisp and clean-cut, almost unrecognizable to her, as she has never seen him out of his military uniform. His gaze is fixed on the book whose yellow pages he is leafing through. After a while he puts it back, thanks the shopkeeper. He turns and strides off without seeing her, running a hand through that spiky black hair, the sunlight bringing out the dark blue glint she remembers from that winter day in Bastogne.

As he walks off into the crowd Renée follows, almost unconsciously. She can't let him disappear. Of course, the logical thing to do would be to call out, but she doesn't know what she would say, so she stays behind him at a safe distance while she tries to sort out her thoughts.

It's been six years since the end of the war. Six years since his last letter to her. He had continued to write even when he was back in America, so she had been confused when, several months after the war ended, he had stopped sent him a letter, but he never responded. After months of waiting, she had had to accept it. She would receive no more letters from Eugene Roe.

Renée isn't sure what she hopes to achieve by following him like this, but it was an automatic movement. Her feet moved of their own accord. It's been six years. Will he recognize her? Her face is slightly thinner than it was when the met, she is wearing a bit of makeup, and her hair is loose. Will he even remember her?

When he turns onto a relatively deserted street she has pulled her courage together, and anyways there aren't that many witnesses to see if she gets embarrassed.

She takes a deep breath.

* * *

He hears his name being called, softly.

"Eugene?"

He turns.

* * *

_**And...that's the end! I hope you enjoyed the story, please read on for my last (and longest) Author's Note, where I discuss/explain certain aspects of the story a bit more. Thanks again for reading!**_


	9. Author's Note

And here we are, at the end of my first Band of Brothers fanfiction! I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading my story, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Eugene and Renee are my Band of Brothers OTP, I was so sad when she died that I had to do this "What if she lived" AU. I tried to keep it as realistic as possible, which sadly meant that there was no way for Eugene and Renee to meet again before he went back to America. Trust me, I wanted them to get together too, but there was just no realistic explanation. So instead, they meet six years later in Paris, purely by coincidence! That scene was inspired by a similar scene in _Night_, by Elie Weisel. I left the end of that scene open-ended so I suppose you can decide for yourself what happens when he turns, but personally, I like to think that he recognizes her, and they go and have a nice chat and catch up at a cafe somewhere.

I know I labeled this story as Friendship/Romance but there wasn't much overt romance in the story. That was because again, I wanted to keep it realistic, and I just didn't see a really passionate romance forming just from sending letters. I left the romance to lurk in the subtext, and I'm quite happy with that.

Speaking of romance though, I am planning another Eugene/Renee story, this time set in a modern AU, with a bit of a twist, and it will be much more romance-y. Let me know if you would be interested in that! (I'm going to write it anyways, but feedback would be nice, haha.)

Finally I would like to thank ChocAndSnow19, airborneIMPREZA, and Paratrooper56, my faithful reviewers, who were so kind as to leave lovely reviews on every single chapter. Thank you so much, and thanks to anybody else who read my story.

Thank you again and again, for reading! I look forward to seeing you again soon.

Currahee!


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